


Various Ficlets II

by FreyaLor



Series: Ficlets [2]
Category: French History RPF, The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-08-25 10:49:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreyaLor/pseuds/FreyaLor
Summary: All 4 ficlets that came out of the "One Word Writing Challenge" I accepted on Tumblr.I cannot be blamed for the chaos that inevitably ensues :DMost fics related to real French historical figures (not the work of Dumas), but some linked to the BBC Musketeers fandom.If you liked my previous works, please enjoy!





	1. A few deaths too many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom : History of France  
> Pairing : Louis/Richelieu  
> Date : 1632  
> Words : 3K  
> Rating : G

 

 

 

 

 

 

_**Blam !** _

 

 

The deafening gunshot makes me jump, gasping a little, and I force myself steady by crossing my arms tight.

 

The smell of powder hurts my throat. I hide my flinch with a sharp cough.

 

Next to me, so close I can see the small clouds formed by his breath in the raging cold, he yells in triumph, handing the musket back to Treville.  
Far away, somewhere beyond the poplars, a bird falls like a stone, giving a series of faint thumps as it hits the radiant foliages of early autumn.

 

The hunting squires immediately spur their horses and disappear into the woods in search for the small body, and soon enough one of them comes back galloping towards us, brandishing a lifeless bunch of feathers.  


-“Congratulations Your Majesty!” The boy exults as he presents the dead bird to him, head first, paws tucked back.

 

It is – _it was_ a magnificent mallard, vibrant with lively hues of green and blue, his beak a masterpiece of bright yellow. A beautiful creature, just as God has wanted it, well, until a musket bullet, made to pierce through steel armours, tore a good half of his insides open wide.

It’s not even fit to be consumed. It’s dead. That’s all it is.  


The King still turns to me, beaming joy, his dark hair flying wild upon the nasty October winds, and I silently thank the bird, for what it’s worth, for having at least made this man happy. Times have been rough with him lately, his duties forcing him twice to execute a man who used to be very dear to him.  
Marillac, last August, and Montmorency, last week.

 

My efforts have been numerous - _and they can be, trust me, of quite various natures_ – in the hope of bringing back that smile to his lips, but my Louis is a hunter, and though he can never be indifferent to my wits and affection, eventually, sooner or later, his pain has to be healed in fresh, warm blood.

He gestures at the dead duck with radiant pride, and I nod subtly, bowing to his deadly aim.

He laughs, then, spins around and reaches out for Treville. The Captain reloads the musket in six expert moves and hands it back to the King.  


-“Splendid weapon, Captain!” Louis praises, and the Musketeer clicks his heels.  


-“Indeed, Your Majesty.” He muses. “A few of those in my regiment would be quite a blessing.”  


With that, _I know_ Treville is looking at me. That’s why I very ostensibly avert my eyes.

For God’s sake we have talked about this a thousand times. The treasury will never allow me to give such an expensive weapon to each and every one of his trained dogs. They will be kept for the Royal Army’s infantry, and that’s final. His boys spend more time running around with pistols and swords than handling any kind of muskets anyways.

 

Treville grunts something under his breath, and I’m not sure it is appropriate, but I know better than to spoil my King's newly-found joy with pointless bickering.

 

Holding the long, delicately chiseled weapon firmly in his arms, Louis keeps his narrowed eyes to the skies, and what he’s waiting for doesn’t fail to come.  
Indeed, a wave of dreadful cold has crashed upon France from up North, and we are in full migration season. The skyline of Versailles is constantly crossed by graceful formations of ducks, escaping the cruelty of winter for the warmer climate of the Mediterranean Sea.

I look up to marvel at the V-shaped battalion gently passing over the meadow. The birds follow their leader in perfect synchronicity, calling each other by sharp, modulated cries. I have seen among humans, I fear, less orderly regiments.  


I won't admire the birds for long. Louis is already clicking the matchlock, aiming, firing.

 

_**Blam !** _

 

I jump again, biting my lips upon a whimper, cursing my nerves one more time.  


The birds squeak and scatter in confusion, disappearing from our sight in mere seconds. Two of them won’t have this chance, spiralling to the ground in broken trajectories.  


-“ _**Ha!** _ ” Louis cheers. “Have you seen that? Two of them!”

Again, the squires ride around. Again, horribly mutilated ducks are proudly brought back to us. My King discusses the efficiency of the musket with Treville some more, but as he turns to me, it really seems the only thing he truly hopes for is my approval.  


And my approval I gladly give, speaking my admiration for his skill, restraining my speech since he despises obsequiousness or fawning. He seems to like my choice of words and laughs softly, making my heart swell in inescapable warmth.  


I am glad, I really am, to see him naturally blissful, comfortable out there in the open, away from the palace of lies the Louvre will always be. But I fear that beyond the pleasure of the hunt itself, this wild, feral man is also trying to impress me with his aim, the way the tradition of his bloodline most surely dictates.  


As if my love for him wasn’t granted forevermore.

As if it could depend on a sad row of tattered birds.  


I feel flattered, truly, by his will to draw my attention, and there are indeed other men, in other places or other times, who would have been seduced by his unquestionable ability, but I have seen so much blood pointlessly spilled upon French soil in my wretched lifetime that even those ducks feel like a few deaths too many.

 

 

So as Treville takes back the musket, reloads it with the same deft competence and returns it to Louis, I wish I could give the next birds a warning. I wish I could spend one month of my life, one week, one day, without seeing something die.

 

But the meadow is well-chosen and the time of the year is perfect, so, of course, merely minutes after the last gunshot, a smaller yet colourful flock of ducks appear over the hunting lodge's roof, and I brace myself, hugging my own chest, squeezing my eyes shut.

 

_**Blam!** _

 

The King roars. _I sigh._

 

Another dead bird is laid down with the others upon a plain table behind Treville. Another artwork of nature is reduced to a pile of bloodied flesh and broken bones. I can bear the sight of that forlorn feathery heap for so long before my stomach sinks, and I need to lower my eyes.

 

I know I have no right to look aside. I'm just being a hypocrite. I have signed, ordered, and designed more destruction than this musket could ever cause. My hands are stained with the blood of more innocents than any hunt could ever kill.  
But precisely because the cries of those I had to sacrifice to forge a nation worthy of my King will haunt my nights until I die, I cannot stand the blood of those sinless, graceful creatures.

 

It's nothing more than a few deaths too many.

 

 

As the mighty gun is thoroughly compared to the flintlock or the heavy pitchfork musket by a very enthusiastic Treville, the King spots another group of ducks over the Eastern woods, and snaps for the weapon to be reloaded.

 

 _Oh, please, Louis, just let them fly_ , I almost implore, but this sorrow I feel is but the whim of my trouble nerves again I am sure.

  
Unwilling to ruin my King's cheerfulness I keep my gaze on the ground, between dead leaves and burgeoning mushrooms, tightening my coat around my shoulders, waiting for the killing spree to end, trying to chase away the ghost voices of my own damnation.

 

 

I hear the scattered cries of migrating ducks approaching steadily, and I already bite my lips to muffle my whine at the next gunshot.

So many deaths, so many souls. Fallen like stones upon French soil, their guts torn open by wars that needed to be waged. So many faces, so many names, waiting for me on Judgment Day, with their revenge upon their lips.

 

_Enough bullets, enough blood, please, Louis.  
I could not, in any way, love you more than I already do. _

 

 

The ducks fly closer, the wind is clear. Poplars whistle under the timid October light, but the thunder of gunpowder, it doesn't come.

 

-”Cardinal?”

 

I have a start, my eyes snapping open, and I look up with a dry gulp.

 

My King is there, his musket suspended mid-air, watching me with a worried frown upon his soft, youthful brow. Treville, over his shoulder, is staring too, more resigned maybe, in front of what he must think as one more dizzy spell of mine.  


But Louis knows me more than this. He knows me as I know him, more than his own body, more than his own soul. He gauges my face, glances at the ducks above, and meets my eyes again.

 

I lower my head, biting my lips, ashamed to be too troubled to feel enticed by his demonstration, crushed, all of a sudden, by how different we've always been. The flock passes right over our heads, so close he could kill three of them in one shot. He'd be so proud, he'd be so glad, overjoyed to prove his worth on something less gruesome than a real battlefield.  
  
He'd yell in jubilation, as the instinct of his bloodline surely dictates, but that gunshot, _it doesn't come._

_  
_

I look up once more to see him exhale a long, shuddering sigh instead, and the grip of his musket gives out a muffled sound as it hits the ground between his boots.

 

-”You will never be bloody _simple_.” He just mutters under his breath, watching in irritation the birds fly South with disciplined serenity.

 

When the ducks have disappeared behind the line of high poplars, he shakes his head a little, and hands the musket over to Treville for the last time.

 

-”That will be all, Captain.” He says. “Order the boys back to the stables. I will join you for dinner in one hour.”

 

The Musketeer lets out half a smile. He's frustrated, no doubt, by the untimely end of the new musket's inspection, but he has just been invited to the King's table, and this must mean more weaponry discussed later.

So, all in all, he bows quite joyfully and lays the musket back in its wooden case before he runs off to gather the squires.

 

We're left alone, my King and me, as the October winds ruffle the tousled feathers of the four ducks he destroyed. He beckons me close with a sharp tilt of his head, and I take three steps forward, until my cloak, as it flaps upon the cold breeze, comes to stroke his hands and arms.

 

We don't touch, it would be far from safe, but his eyes upon me grow soft and warm, the way they do when we're in his rooms at night, and it's enough to cut my breath in pieces.

 

-”If my hunting skills only fill you with horror,” he whispers, low, dreadful, _seductive_ , “how am I supposed to charm you?”

 

I offer a quiet smile, then, the one I know he likes.

-”Louis,” I breathe, feeling more than I see the deep shudder he always has when I speak his name, “don't worry, you just did.”

 

He frowns again, panting a little, his cheeks taking a colour the cold weather alone cannot justify, and I lift one finger, pointing at the skies above Versailles, where a thin line of peaceful birds cross the meadow in gentle calls.

 

-”With the duck you didn't kill.” I tell him, and the sound of his laughter hunts down the ghosts of my crimes just as surely as his fine musket would.

 

 

 


	2. Agnus Dei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom : French History  
> Friendship : Richelieu & Joseph  
> Date and place : Paris, 1621  
> Words : 3K  
> Rating : G (Warning : blood)

 

 

 

 

 

I quicken my pace, because this dark feeling in me has kept growing since this morning, and God in his warnings has never led me astray.

 

The cobblestones of Paris are merciless with the soles of my feet, but this is my penance week, and no glory, no praise, no temptation can divert me from my faith. I shall walk from the Ursulines convent to the Louvre barefooted, no matter how filthy Paris can be in late September.

 

I pass the Palace gates as the evening sun declines and the horizon starts to burn with gorgeous shades of rosy red. The Lord, in his endless grace, has created the most magnificent blend of thin white clouds and vibrant light to salute the day once more, but I cannot spare time to marvel at it, because this pain of bad omens twisting my stomach,  _I know what it means._

 

The doors of the Louvres open for me with reverence, valets and Courtiers bowing politely on my passage. I hear their murmurs, of course I do, the same I've been hearing for fifteen years.

 

_Devout man, apostolic soldier, an example of faith,_ some say, but I am not moved by flattery.  
_Lunatic, rabid monk, demented wolf of bigotry,_ others spit, but I am not touched by villainy. 

 

 

Only one thing matters, one sole purpose guides me.  
And I  _feel_ it needs me upstairs. 

 

 

I was walking quite peacefully as I got out of the Convent one hour ago, but I fear I am almost running by now, passing in front of the Queen Mother's doors snarling her servants out of my path. I only concede a brief halt on the last doorstep before the study, accepting a wet cloth and a basin to clean my feet from the grime of the street.

 

My penance, as  _he_ always says, doesn't require ruining his rugs. 

 

 

 

But the moment it's done, I barge in and lock the door behind my back, the twist of anguish in my guts almost sucking the air out of me. As darkness crawls up the walls of the study I quickly search around, not even at a man’s level, but right away on the floor.

 

It doesn't take long, of course, for my fear to be confirmed by a dark silhouette curled at the feet of his desk.

 

I knew it,  _oh, Christ almighty, I knew it._

God, in his warnings, has never let me astray.

 

 

I rush at his side, falling on my knees to search him for injuries.

 

-”Eminence?” I call.

 

But he doesn't reply.

 

I hastily brush his hair away from his eyes to inspect them. They are wide open, but unseeing, emptied of all light, warmth or hope. I squint in the reclining light,  _Lord above, that pain in my guts, I knew what it meant._

 

I grip his cheek to turn his head towards me, get a glimpse of the state of his mouth, and squeeze my eyes shut for a second.

 

 

_Christ in Heavens, not again._

 

_Why burden this miraculous mind with such ghastly madness?_

_Were the hardships on the way to his fate not enough a price to pay?_

 

 

I take a deep breath to steady myself before I examine him further.

 

  
His lips are soiled with thick stains of dried blood, spread on his cheeks and jaw line in chaotic brushstrokes. His face itself is unwounded, but I know what surely is. I blindly reach for his slender hands, bringing them out into the last fragment of light coming through the window, and exhale a low groan of dismay.

 

_He ate himself raw._

 

 

-“Oh, Eminence,  _for God’s sake!_ ” I scold him, my shoulders slumping a little. 

 

 

No reaction, of course.

I look around. No candles have been lit. It means the  _fit_ has started long before dark. His fingers are glued with black clots of dried blood, so I suppose he’s been lying there for at least one hour. 

 

Very well.  _Very well_ .

 

 

I gently let go of him and get up in a wince. I walk to the hearth, revive the fire and drop three large logs in it. Then, as the first flames rise from their embers, I light a few candles with them, and set the kettle to boil. I go for the drawer where he keeps his medicine, pick up the Carmelite herbs he uses to soothe his headaches, and count ten drops in a large cup. I prepare his basin next, and fetch the discrete wooden case where bandages are always prepared, right there upon the shelf, under a pile of ancient maps.

 

I carry everything to the small bedroom next door that is all  _her Highness_ Queen Mother thinks him worthy of, sweep his nightstand clear with my elbow, sending books and papers crashing on the floor in the process, and drop the cup and basin upon it instead. 

Then I spin around and head back to the study, rolling up the sleeves of my robes.

 

-“Alright, Eminence, let’s do it.” I huff, pointlessly I suppose.

 

 

I kneel next to him again, this time to shift him on his back and slide my arms underneath his legs and shoulders. Groaning in effort I haul him up and move to his bedroom. God, I used to be stronger than this.

 

As if my exertion wasn't enough, that's the moment he choses to blink back to reality, realise he’s being carried, and start  _struggling_ against it.

 

 

-“For the love of God, keep still!” I hiss, and his squirming stops dead.

 

-“Joseph?” His broken voice tries as I lay him on his bed.

 

-“ _Who the hell else?_ ” I almost shout, and he flinches in instinctive guilt.

 

 

As I leave him there to stride back towards the kettle I vaguely realize I am being too harsh with him again, but truly, I can’t help how enraged, how disappointed I feel. I had hoped for this sickness of his to recede as he ascended towards his rightful place next to the King, but if anything has changed in those last five years, it has mostly been for the worst.

 

What I had mistaken for a temporary condition, a sign that the Lord wanted this exceptional man on much higher grounds than the miserable town of Luçon, was in fact, as I have been forced to admit later, a curse he would carry all his life, a further strain upon his resolute, yet unfortunately frail body.

 

I wrap a handkerchief around the kettle handle and lift the pot out of the fire. I bring it to the bedroom to pour warm water in the basin, careful to spare enough to fill his cup of herbs.

He has laboriously sit up on the bed while I was gone, and he’s watching me now with meek, exhausted eyes, expecting my anger, no doubt, to break like thunder anytime.

 

But I stay silent instead, dipping the handkerchief in the basin with one hand, handing out his cup with the other. He moves to seize it, but his fingers are in such a state they wouldn’t keep a steady hold of a feather.

 

-“Don't.” I grunt, and lift the cup to his lips instead.

 

He glances down at his hands and whines in deep shame, still taking a sip out of the cup with quiet obedience. I make him drink all of it before I start, because I’ll have to peel those dried clots of blood off his skin and it shall  _hurt like hell._

 

I examine his sleeves. Those new bishop robes may be more suited for the Louvre than the cheaper ones he had in Luçon, but their sleeves are too tight to be rolled up. I sigh, unbuttoning the whole frock.

 

-“We need to get rid of these.” I mumble. “I want access to your hands.”

 

He lets himself be handled rather calmly at first, watching my hands with a dazed frown, but the moment I start brushing the opened robes off his shoulders he lets out a panicked shriek, crawling away from me in confused terror, his eyes blurred with renewed nightmares.

 

I freeze, hands suspended in the air, feeling my heart miss a beat, not because of his fright, not only that.

  
Also because of that smell I sniffed on his exposed skin.

 

 

The smell of rancid sweat and sugared wine.

The smell of disgust.

 

_The smell of her._

 

 

Oh, bloody hell.

 

Exhaling sharply, I sit on the edge of the bed, watching him shiver and heave for a while, until he understands there’s no one else than me here, and slowly calms down.

 

 

I should have known it was the Medici.  
She must have had one of her afternoon  _hungers_ again. 

 

 

 

It’s not what she does to him, or what she asks him to do when she summons him alone in her chambers and dismisses her usual audience of witches and worms. Fortunately, she’s a dull-minded, unimaginative woman, and the sins she forces upon him are, after all, quite commonplace.

 

It’s not that, it’s her.  
_It’s just her._

 

Her rotten teeth, her decaying hairline. Her dusty jewels and heavy gowns. Her immense, disgraceful body, loaded with both fat and vanity, too cumbersome to be washed more than once a month.

Her vile tongue, her wet, slimy lips, and her bottomless appetite for everything sugary and sweet.

 

Including Eminence's pale skin.

 

Its been ten years now she's been devouring his youth with famished chortles every day and night. In less than five, his rich brown locks have turned to silver grey, and deep lines of worry have crawled around the corner of his eyes, his body marked by her ravages just as permanently as his soul is.

 

As time only blackened her mind and thickened her face, Marie de Medici has turned into a monster of self-assured stench, and though many other men would make do with this atrocity for the sake of the favours and privileges she so freely distributes, this one lives every second spent in her bed as the cruelest of all tortures.

 

He’s not repulsed as I can be by the carnal sins of this world, it's not that. It is painfully obvious how this man craves touch with every fibre of his being.

 

He is destined for more, so much more than her, that’s all.

 

His mind, though methodical and wise, has been drawn towards the delicacies of art and nature since his earliest childhood. He has a taste, a  _need_ for the absolute, his eyes constantly looking up to higher skies, and being trapped under the rancid weight of this mindless mare is an insult to his rare, refined soul.

 

 

 

I wait for his eyes to regain some focus, and since his hands are still useless, I reach out to tug his robes off his arm myself, reciting Deuteronomy to soothe his fear.

 

-“  _The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you_ ,” I whisper as I roll his black attire away until he’s bare to the waist, “ _he will never leave you nor forsake you. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged_ .”

 

He looks reassured, familiar with my voice reading out the Bible to him, so as I pick up the basin, and lay it down on his lap to grab one of his hands, he barely lets out a whimper of protest.

 

I plunge the handkerchief in warm water and start rubbing dried blood off his fingers one by one. As I work, the nasty scabs reveal horrid wounds underneath; most of them bite marks, though I suspect him to have used some kind of blade at some point. He seems to discover, just as I do, the extent of the damage, and with a broken sob, he softly pleads:

 

-“I can’t do this anymore, Joseph. I can’t...”

 

 

I know what he means to say, and God be my witness I understand, but our sacred dreams just  _can't afford_ to have any of this by now.

 

-“We have a purpose, Eminence.” I sternly remind him. “We have a-”

 

-“Stop calling me that way!” He cuts in, averting his eyes in self-hatred. “I told you already I am  _not_ a Cardinal.”

 

 

To his stunned confusion instead of arguing I just let out a fond chuckle, releasing his clean hand to reach for the other.

 

-“Of course you are.” I scoff. “You are, and you have always been.”

 

I wash his other set of fingers with the same devoted care, his blood eventually turning the basin water into a badly filtered Bourgogne wine in a sad mimicry of Jesus’ miracle. When my work is done, I discard the filthy recipient and pull out the bandages box, sighing in concern at his ripped, abused skin.

 

 

This is worse than before.  _This is worse than ever._   
The cuts are deeper, the wounds nastier, some areas bitten several times. 

 

 

Lord, he must have hurt himself for hours to force out, I suppose, the agony he felt inside.  
  


 

 

I distractedly pat his shoulder, then push him downwards onto the bed until he lies down there, and pull the covers over him. I gesture him to roll on his side and put his hands on my lap.

 

He obeys, soundless, numb, barely the shadow of the man he was last time I saw him.

 

 

 

 

I've been a fool. Evangelic duties or not, I shouldn’t have left him alone in the Louvre for so long.

 

 

 

His wits are remarkable and he has fierce adaptive instincts, it's true. His knowledge of names, faces, facts and secrets is far greater than anyone suspects, and he has already managed to prepare the next three best profitable diplomatic moves for France regarding each significant force in Europe clear as day on maps and papers. He has made excellent use of his delicate speech and charming poise already, earning himself eyes and ears in places where his name hasn't even been heard yet.

 

 

But this place remains a nest of snakes and the Medici’s  _clique_ , even after Concini’s death, is still a bunch of the lowest breed of humanity. There will be no rest for him as long as she’s around, sweeping her salacious stare upon his skin. 

 

I've been a fool.  
  


  
Like it or not, Eminence's nerves will need constant consideration, and my denying the strain our scheme for power is having on his sanity won't help him in any way. This kind of misjudgement is forbidden to me. As long as he’s not at the King’s right side day and night yet, he has me,  _only me_ , to protect him from his foes, and from himself. 

 

 

I've been a fool, _a stupid fool._

 

 

 

 

 

Inept to speak my remorse otherwise, I carefully grab his wrists and kiss his abused knuckles four times with the same devotion I would have for the Christ’s own shroud.

 

-“My Eminence.”I breathe against the stigmata of my mistakes, and he closes his eyes in sheer sorrow.

 

-“Please, Joseph!” He cries. “I don’t deserve your care. I am not the man you see in me, I never will. Why do you keep pushing me upwards while I’m so visibly worthless?”

 

Hell, _I hate it_ when he speaks that way. I know it's just his nerves talking, but mercy me, it feels like an insult to the very face of the Lord. 

 

-”Look at me, Ezechielli” He breathes, “look at me, I am a monster. This dream we have, God’s mission as you say, you would have accomplished it better on your own.”

 

-”Shut it.” I grumble, busying myself with the thin strips of bandage.

 

But he doesn't hear, eyes blurred, face half-buried in his pillow, shivers of exhaustion crawling up his spine.

 

 

-” _You_ could be Cardinal, you could be Minister.” He raves on, adrift. “You already have the reputation of a Saint. I know your feet are bleeding too, Joseph, with the mortifications you impose yourself as punishment for the sin you’ll never commit!”

 

 

-” _Shut it, you idiot!_ ” I yell, and his shocked stare darts up to my face though a veil of tears.

 

I can't look at him too long, because as he keeps praising my virtues while he drags his own soul into the dust, he's being so  _wrong_ I could slap him in the face. 

 

-”I’ll tell you of my sins, Eminence.” I hiss, focusing on taking care of his wounds instead. “I’ll tell you why it has to be  _you_ alone, right next to the Sun, beaming in red cardinality on the very pages of future history.”

 

He doesn't say a word, lying frozen in his bed, his wide eyes fixed upon mine, his bleeding hands offered to my care with unquestioning trust, looking so innocent I almost cannot breathe.

 

-”Do you know why I mortify myself?” I blurt out, transported. “Because I am a coward. Those sacrifices that need to be made to achieve our holy purpose, those sins that need to be committed for France to be reborn out of the dark ages into an era of light, those horrid acts, those filthy deeds, only you are brave enough to carry them out.”

 

 

-”Joseph...” He tries, his barely bandaged hand moving towards my face, but I fear his touch would only turn me to dust, and I inch away from him.

 

 

-”I was the one to advise you to seduce the Medici” I go on, cutting stripes of white fabric with my teeth and wrapping them around his skin, “because the young King had not yet the strength to seize the power that was owed to him, and if the influence we needed had to be given to you, alas, it could only be by this fat whore.”

 

 

-”Joseph, we both agreed...”

 

 

-”Yes, we both agreed, but I remain safely tucked in your shadow, pushing you forward to damnation while I relish in the  _comfort_ of being true to my holy vows!”

 

 

I hate the fact that my eyes tingle, but it is the truth of God spoken through my mouth, and as I brush a damp strand of hair off his worried brow, I feel only humbled by the strength, the purity of him.

 

 

-”And here you are, my Eminence, your magnificent soul offered as sacrificial lamb for the sake of our vision, burdened with ailment and pain, misunderstood, despised and tortured. Here you are, oblivious to your own martyrdom, elevating me to the heights of saints, so I beg you, for the love of God and everything you hold dear, right now, just bloody  _shut it_ .”

 

 

 

A single tear pools at the corner of his eye before it sinks into the pillow.  
He complies to my will and doesn't speak at all, but the determination of this man can't be ignored as he makes a painful effort to haul himself up on his wounded hands, stare into my eyes for a second and drop an infinitely soft, trembling kiss on my cheek.

 

 

He lets himself fall back on the bed then, and gives me a tired smile.

 

 

I cross his brow, wiping feverish sweat off his skin as I whisper :

 

-” _And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus_ .”

 

 

“Amen”, he gently says, his voice devoid of all belief.

 

 

I expect him to sleep, God knows I bloody would, but he insists upon me checking the correspondence he has prepared today for the officers and governors of the South instead, since we need to know how many allies he could count on in his dearest, greatest endeavour: the utopia he calls the State.

 

I find myself, thus, going back to the study to pick up his writing of the day, and sit on that plain chair next to his bed to read it aloud, just like every other damn day.

I find both of us discussing probabilities and exchanging intel, clicking back into our natural ways as if nothing happened, his cautious, analytical mind acting as the guardrail of my uncompromising impetus.

 

We agree upon a few modifications, that I write in the margins of his letters myself, since his reddened, throbbing hands are sealed in layers of bandages.

We agree, above all, upon the fact that any further building of the State will have to wait until the King is truly King, because no one in the Medici's entourage has the even half of the ambition we need.

 

He sighs, then, thwarted by how far from reach his beloved dream remains.

 

Even in his own rooms in the Royal Apartments of the Louvres, secured as the Queen Mother's long-term favourite, even here, so far away from Luçon, from Blois, from exile and even disgrace, he's still devoured by how incomplete he is.

 

A taste, a need for the _absolute.  
_ He is destined for so much more, that's all. 

 

He's destined for a place right next to the Sun.

 

 

 

 

History is lying there in this bed, locked within a brilliant mind, boiling to be given the power it requires to change the balance of the whole continent, waiting in despair for a twenty years old man who still needs to realize he's being robbed of his own crown.

 

History is lying there, sealed within a vibrant heart, already drawn towards the King by forces far beyond mankind, God's mighty will showing itself in shining evidence through this man's unquenchable feelings for young Louis.

 

 

-”Be patient, Eminence.” I reassure him, stiffly patting his shoulder some more. “Soon enough, the red robes you deserve will be granted to you by the filthy monster I made you crawl underneath, and each one of those wounds will be atoned in glory.”

 

He bites his lips, smothering a bitter smile. I know he doesn’t share half of my faith, but it’s not the first time my own conviction supports us both, and it won’t be the last.

 

-“With cardinality,” I hammer, ardent, “you will gain access to the Royal Council, and I swear to you, all you’ll have to do, then, is speak out those dreams you’ve been writing about for years. You’ll just have to talk, Eminence, and  _he_ will know. He will see your worth. He's no Bourbon if he doesn't. He will see you for who you are, and when he’ll grow strong enough to use you, he’ll call you at his side, you, the only eagle that can fly right into the Sun. He’ll keep you under his protection, the greatest servant he ever had, and he will love you then, I promise you, just as much as you love him.”

 

 

With that, he rasps a spiteful laugh, and blatantly rolls his eyes at me, shifting away until he’s lying on his back, his hands carefully raised one inch above the sheets.

 

I let out a dreamy smile, because, truly, can I blame him for his disdain?

 

 

-“You think I don’t know what I’m talking about right?” I throw him, defiant. “How can a monk speak about love, well, learn,  _young man_ , that I have been in love before.”

 

 

He has a small start, turning back towards me with wide, suspicious eyes, and his disbelief isn’t truly a surprise. My tempted heart has been sealed long ago in a steel armour forged in the flames of faith and holy purpose, and though this man is the only one I trust with my life, there are still parts of my pastI kept hidden from his sight.

 

-“Would you think it so strange,” I ask, laughing good-heartedly, “knowing I have been at the Pluvinel Academy just like you, to think I too have known, in the blessed carelessness of my youth, the beauty of a woman?”

 

 

He sits up a little, then, his bright stare fixed upon me, and leans towards me in untainted interest, his own suffering forgotten in the raw curiosity his mind has always been fuelled by.

 

-“What was her name?” He timidly asks, and I find myself stunned by how difficult it is to summon back her name to my lips. 

 

 

-“Isabelle, I think.” I mutter, frowning in the struggle to recall her face from that part of my memories I left for dead so long ago. “She was the youngest daughter of our neighbours in Montfort.”

 

I see him ready to ask for more details,  but I am not sure I can remember much more, so I raise a finger in front of his nose and just add:

 

-“Now, t he calling of God was already strong in my heart, but my mother and that young girl were both resolute souls. There has been a day where I had to lock myself in my room in Tremblay, while both women kept knocking on my door, reciting poetry, and imploring me to come out and accompany them to a ball.”

 

He seems to make a tremendous effort to picture  _that_ , and again, it’s only natural.

All I ever speak, all I ever act upon in his presence is God’s own will, from what pour into my cup to every advice I ever give. 

I have burned with the Lord’s holy word since I learned how to read,  yet unsure God’s plans for me until they were revealed to my face. Indeed, though I forgot everything about Isabelle, I remember the first time I saw those dark, fervent eyes all too well, in a squalid room of the presbytery of Luçon, where his careful, yet fervent voice felt already heavy the sound of glories to come. 

 

I knew I couldn’t ignore the glorious path that had been laid out for me anymore, then, and as I called him, “Eminence” was the only name my lips could form.

 

 

-“You didn’t succumb.” He breathes, a bit admiring, perhaps. 

 

-“Never.” I state. “They went to that ball alone, while I sat in my room copying ‘The life of Saint Francis’. Twice.”

 

And before he even starts to snicker, my finger above his face turns into a stern warning.

 

-“And don’t roll your eyes at me again, I still have your ‘Perfection of the Christian Man’ on my nightstand in Saint Honoré!”

 

 

At that he lets out his first laugh, and I feel blessed already.

We share a few moments of peaceful silence, and I put the diplomatic letters away on the buffet to pick up the Bible instead, clearing my throat before I read a few verses to him, in the hope of lulling him to sleep.

 

But before I do he softly pulls at my sleeve, flinching in pain as his fingers barely can take a hold of the fabric, and nods at his hands with anguish. 

-“This will never heal until a few days.” He muses, his voice threatened by guilt again. “Yet, I have managed to get myself invited to the Generals review ceremony tomorrow morning. The King will be there, you see, and the only pair of gloves I own will not hide those bandages.”

 

I look down at the layers of linen around his skin. Some of them are already stained in fresh blood while others make his fingers too thick to fit in the tight, merciless satin gloves that came with the new robes.

 

I chuckle, then, because I can’t help it.  
_God, in his warning, has never led me astray._

 

I fumble in my pilgrim bag, the one I keep hanging on my shoulder at all times, giving as only answer to his questioning look: 

 

-“Do you know why I was at the Ursuline Convent this morning?”

 

-“For a sermon, I suppose.” He tries.

 

-“Yes, but not only.” I correct. “You will be delighted to know that Sister Jeanne Espérance, who has been living there for twenty years now, besides being the most devout soul of her order, also happens to be the best seamstress in Paris, especially with very fine leathers.”

 

I pull out a thin cardboard case, then, and hand it over to him. Puzzled, he gently pushes the lid open with the only side of his left thumb that’s still undamaged, and gasps as he discovers, wrapped in delicate tissue, a pair of brand new black gloves.

 

-“It’s roe deer skin.” I explain. “Not as fashionable as the fancy silken nonsense worn at Court those days, but having the remarkable advantage to be  _lenient_ with bumps and bruises.” 

 

While I speak, I lift Sister Jeanne’s excellent handiwork out of the box and gesture for him to extend his hands again. I slowly, carefully slip the slightly extensible leather gloves on, taking my time around the worst of his wounds, until all signs of his burden are hidden from the world.

 

I admire the result for a while, then lift his fingers to my lips, murmuring my oath to embrace his curse at last as the necessary darkness to his light: 

 

-“  _Agnus Dei, quitollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis_ . »

 

He shakes his head in  perplexity again, but sinks into the bed with a reassured sigh all the same, smiling brightly at his gloves before his eyes flutter close and he falls asleep just like that, with his hands still in mine, wearing the token of my friendship around the marks of his martyrdom.

 

I stay with him, as I stayed so many other nights, perched on the side of his bed, my eyes fixed on his face with the same certainty I had as a child, gazing at the Christ Himself, as my journey had just begun, in the old house of Du Tremblay.

 

 

 

 


	3. Misplaced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom : History of France  
> Pairing : Louis/Richelieu  
> Date : November 1636  
> Words : 4K  
> Rating : T+

  


 

 

 

 

 

The wind comes crashing against the ancient windows of the City House, so loud I have to look up and check, every time, if nothing is broken. The skies are darkening already, dear God, one month ago daylight still lingered after dinner.  
  
I turn to the delicate table clock above the mantlepiece. Almost seven.

  


I sigh and arrange, for the third time, the documents I have prepared for the King.

  


The Spanish troops have surrendered yesterday morning after six weeks of siege, and since I always draft my treaties in advance, the forced retreat of the Cardinal Infant has been sealed on the same evening.

As the enemy, decimated by plague and famine, left Corbie in scattered rows, the soldiers of France rejoiced, chanting the name of their King in cheerful unison, cracking bottles open and lighting up bonfires, but I couldn't afford time for any of these celebrations.

  


For the end of a war, in fact, always marks the beginning of dreadful amounts of paperwork.

  


In this case, fourteen noblemen of Corbie, most of them having blatantly _offered_ the city to the incoming Spanish to preserve their wealth from pillage, await for their fate to be decided in the Minimes prison. I have aligned their files, containing the traces of their sins and merits, displayed in alphabetical order on the wide table of the library.

Sanctions will also have to be taken against the City itself, as becoming enemy land, even for a while, cannot go unpunished in a well-regulated State. My propositions for financial and repressive actions concerning Corbie's privileges are laid out on a detailed chart, along with a quick estimation of the yearly profit to be expected as consequence for the Royal treasury.

The prestigious, opulent abbey of Corbie has to be reallocated to a stricter religious order, as the integrity of the monks there remains dubious to say the least. I have made contact with a few of Father Joseph’s entrusted agents in order to make sure the Capuchins evangelists strengthen the discipline of this one loosely tied congregation.

Finally, something will have to be done about the whole Picardie, pillaged and burned by the four regiments sent by Ferdinand II to the Cardinal Infant’s rescue. Our own forces managed to stop the German army from even approaching Corbie, but the hot-blooded general Werth didn’t miss his opportunity for revenge. For the sake of making our siege forces less easy to supply, he spent an alarming amount of energy ravaging every village and town around, and now thousands of acres of crops are reduced to dust, dead men and animals covering every scrap of land. My suggestion is to suspend contributions and dues in Picardie for at least two years, giving the population the means to rebuild their lives. We might consider cutting off land and salt tax in a fifty miles circle to encourage settlement of new families in what is by now a deserted, mutilated province.

  


I have been working upon those papers for forty hours straight, and since I know my King doesn’t like reading very much, I have memorized them all by heart. I always make sure those post-victory discussions take as little time as possible, because locking up Louis de Bourbon in a small library for more than two hours of _administration_ is something I wouldn’t advise anyone.

_Try and cage a wild wolf between the lines of an account table._

  


He knows his duty for sure, and respects my line of work, but despite my best efforts, his appetite for vast spaces and open air is often stronger than anything else.

  
Today won't be an exception. He’s two hours late for our meeting.

  


  


I snatch my hand away from my mouth when I realize I’m worrying my thumb again, watching dusk leaving the skyline of Corbie at the mercy of another winter night. The howling winds are still banging on the windows, the fragile tainted glass creaking and moaning like a broken wheel.

A gentle knock on the door. Nothing like the thunder Louis would make.

  


-“Come in.” I still concede.

Indeed, it’s only Charpentier, my clerk, timidly peeking inside.

-“The King has not yet arrived?” He states more than he asks.

  


-“No.” I sigh again, my eyes lost in the dark outside. “But I know where he is.”

  


  


  


  


I pick up my cloak, fold it tight around my shoulders and stride down the stairs of the City House. The six guards stationed in the hall immediately move to follow me outside, but I quickly relieve them of that chore. The Spanish have left, all traitors are in prison, and Gaston is sleeping in Amiens tonight. There isn't a soul left in Corbie to want me dead.

Besides, I won't have to walk far.

  


I step outside the City House, groaning as the furious winds spit icy drizzle on my face. Ignoring the outraged shudders of my skin, I clench my teeth and walk towards the City Gates.

The tempest rages on until I reach the old town. Down there in the narrow alleys of uneven cobblestones, the wind releases its grip around my chest for a while, so I can breathe a little and observe the stunned, cautious joy of Corbie’s streets.

The plague has been merciless with the population during those six weeks, and there isn’t a house here that could be spared by grief. But around the three churches of the city, though all cemeteries are marred and overturned by botched graves and mass burials, faint echoes of celebrations can be heard, small windows still brightly lit, deifying darkness in muffled laughter.

The people of France, in their everlasting robustness, will never cease to amaze me.

  


  


I feel my formal robes getting heavier with mud and rainwater with every step I take. I hiss a low curse, grabbing them low and lifting them away from the ground. I wish I could have kept my war attire one more day, but Cardinality primes over temporary military duties, and protocol dictates I take back the cloth as soon as the peace treaty is signed. I am thankful, however, for my foresight as I kept my boots underneath.

  


I pass the Eastern gates with a sour face, refusing two more offers for an escort, _please_ , the place is swarming with thirty five thousand French soldiers, most of them having followed me since La Rochelle.

-”I am a cautious man, Favreau” I tell the Lieutenant of the ramparts patrol as he insists. “According to some, even _exceedingly so_. If I was in any danger, I assure you, I'd know.”

The thick, grumpy man frowns, but still salutes politely, stepping aside to let me pass.

  


I smile in gratitude, and gaze at the hundred yards that separate the city gates from the siege line. Beyond the protective circle of ramparts, the winds await me there, I hear them laughing already.

Tightening my cape around the fierce unwillingness of my body, I lower my head and stride onwards.

  


  


  


Over the gates, everything changes.

No more laughter, no more music. No more joyful lights and tavern signs. Here between the ramparts and the wooden barracks of our troops, those last weeks of war and famine are still alive, sadly obvious despite the dark. What used to be quiet fields and scattered woods are now gruesome lands of mud and debris, covered by dead horses and broken carts. The stench of decay, even after yesterday's heavy rain, hasn't gone from the air, attacking my throat in reproachful spite.

The wind slides under my coat, making it clack around my legs like a disoriented flag. My eyes fixed upon the dim lanterns of the siege line, I bite my lips and keep walking.

I step upon the thick wooden planks laid over the ditch I ordered to be dug around the city in the first weeks of siege. A splendid job done remarkably fast, as half of the citizens of Corbie actually escaped their own city to volunteer for help. I truly warmed up Louis' heart to watch them gather around our troops, offering spades, pickaxes, and loyal souls.

I remember him making a full tour of the siege force every day, dismounting to greet those volunteers in person, asking their names, praising their strength.

‘ _We're honoured to serve the King who will liberate us from the enemy!’_ Some of them said. _‘We are French, and will lay down our lives to remain so!’_

  


How precious those moments have been for my King. His stern, hardened nature is still very sensitive to demonstrations of love, since the void created by his mother's neglect never seems to be truly filled.

Well, it won't stop me from trying.

  


I look around, trying to spot the place I'm looking for. Only when I pick up the sound of a hammer hitting steel fifty yards to my left, almost covered by bawling winds, I know for sure where I need to go.

I blindly brush my hair away from my eyes as I arrive at the gigantic barn's door.

In search for a place to set up an infirmary in the first days of war, I have commandeered this huge building, ideally situated, and allocated a good half of it for the army blacksmith, so their day-an-night work would provide much welcomed warmth for the sick and wounded.

All injured soldiers have been moved to Amiens by now, and until the whole siege line is unmade, only the blacksmiths remain in the barn.

  


I clear my throat and resolutely push the door open. A warm gush of air chases the gloom of the barren field I just crossed, and I step into orange light with a sigh of relief.

I quietly close the door behind me, taking in the rare, yet unsurprising sight in front of me.

  


  


The forge fire is rising high, blown to the ceiling by two sturdy young lads pushing a majestic pair of bellows. The rhythmic inferno paints the whole place in vibrant bursts of yellow, cinder and dust slowly descending upon every surface around.

Into the roaring coal, five tweezers are resting, each one holding one of those unique long nails used to build defensive walls. Next to the flames, a monstrous anvil resonates with loud banging, and La Roche, the Master Blacksmith, is standing there in cheerful awe, watching Louis de France hammering one of those nails into four sections that will be forged anew, I suppose, in four smaller nails used in regular house building.

  


The demolition of siege lines and reconversion of the wood and iron for the repairs of the City is a tedious work always performed by the army, although never yet in history of France, if my memory is correct, by the rightful King himself.

  


For a whole minute, no one even notices me in howling flames and clanging steel.

I cross my arms over my chest and glare, but truly, I am more touched than vexed.

  


He looks absolutely delighted, his sleeves pointlessly rolled up since his white silken shirt is already ruined by coal stains and burn marks. He has tied his untamed hair behind his neck as all blacksmiths are bound to do, a few strands still glued to his face by blackened sweat. His eyes are narrowed in focus, willing each one of his blows to be efficient, and despite his effort, as his task proves successful, a wide excited smile lightens up his face.

  


A glance at his forearms, glistening in exertion, keeping a tight grip upon the tweezers as he hits the steel with dreadful force, ignites a shameful glow inside my guts. His throat pulsating in ardour, his shoulders rolling with mighty ease, his dirty hands unafraid of bruises –

_\- Dear God._

  


I lower my eyes, feeling my cheeks burn up, and when La Roche's assistant springs out of the coal reserve behind the forge with a brand new bag in his arms, I’m almost considering stepping back into the night.

But the short brown man is facing me now, and cannot miss my presence.  
He pales horribly, and drops his heavy load on the floor at his Master's feet.

  


-”Berthoud, for God's sake!” La Roche yells, shaking heaps of coal off his boots, but he soon follows his apprentice's wide eyes and meets my own.

Actually, at this moment, quite _everyone does._

  


The bellows stop in their dance, the flames descend into embers. The hammer falls upon the anvil one last time, and the nails in the fire slowly start to darken.

But though everyone else keeps staring at me in guilt and expectation, Louis lets out a short sigh instead, looking up through the holes in the barn's roof for the first time in hours it seems, to realise the night has fallen.

He has a mildly embarrassed look for me then, and wipes his brow with his arm, which doesn't help at all, I fear.

  


-”Good evening, Cardinal.” He pants, uneasy. “I suppose you have come here to remind me of more formal duties.”

-”I'm afraid I must, Your Majesty.” I state as I bow.

  


He nods, pursing his lips, while La Roche orders under his breath for a fresh cloth and a basin to be brought. His assistant and the younger boys darts off, and my King, visibly reluctant to leave his refuge, picks up a fine hinge set to cool down on a table next to the bellows and nonchalantly brings it to me.

  


-”Yesterday, this was a heavy bar of steel that could only serve as crosstie in war barracks.” He explains, turning the delicate piece around. “I have melted it into seventeen of those, that will be used for the doors of the Saint Michel church.”

  


I offer a fond smile _. I know_. I have asked for damage lists to be set myself, and counted every pound of steel that could be extracted from the siege lines to get the repairs done. I still take the lukewarm hinge in my hand when clean water and soap is presented to him, feeling the comforting weight of steel in my fingers as I watch him clean himself in careless haste.

When he's a little more presentable, I hand the hinge back to La Roche and pick up Louis’ military cloak, doublet and weapons, abandoned there upon a bale of hay.

I help him put it all back on his shoulders while he shoots an apologetic look at the Master blacksmith.

-”Excellent work, La Roche.” He mutters. “Keep me informed concerning those barrel designs.”

  


The old, solid man of the Limousin gives out an awkward bow, gesturing at the dark outside.

-”Should I call for the Royal Guards?” He asks, but Louis only lets out a low snicker.

  


He tightens his baldric, and has a short nod towards his sword.

  


-”I am the Royal Guard.” He says, and brushes past me towards the door.

  


I follow, making quite an effort to match his energetic pace with my soaked robes weighing me down. We stride uphill towards the City, the grim battlefield and spiteful winds forcing us into silence. He doesn’t look or smile at me once, frustrated by my interrupting the blissful distraction he had found himself, but he still stops and waits for me a few times, his face soft and patient despite his averted eyes.

  


As we come near the Eastern gates, I realise the crowd of men around the campfire has at least doubled since my earlier passage. The patrol has been joined, it seems, by Captain Treville and five of his Musketeers, along with Antoine de Ville, the most promising young engineer of France.

Their wariness pacified by a victory still fresh, they don't seem to notice us, gathered in the soothing warmth of the fire, sharing a few bottles of wine. I hear them speak about the last assault upon Corbie in those humble, restrained words simple soldiers always use. They exchange names of fallen comrades and worries about the wounded ones. They recall, several times if they must, the highest moments of their fight, as if to revive for a while the ultimate thrill of risking their own skins, of risking _everything._

Strategy is discussed with the solemnity of highest stakes, since a General’s slightest error could mean their certain death. Weapons are compared as much more than handiwork, but as trusted friends, the only ones they can rely upon when they face the enemy's fire.

Their voices remain heavy with the glories and martyrdom of war for a while, but eventually gravity is brushed away by joy. Bread is broken and handed over, meat is roasted and cut in thin slices, laughter and songs redeeming all misery in their hearts, because after all, that’s how French soldiers are.

The sounds of them nameless heroes, loud and clear in this dark windy night, fly as high as flames can dance, sending sparks of cheer up to the lonely stars above, and I inhale a shuddering breath, despaired by the twisted fate that has separated me from their glorious, yet simple life. I will be forevermore feared if not blatantly despised instead, wrapped in the tyrannical shroud of the State, my purpose on this Earth forbidding me to express my adoration for France in any pure, or virtuous way.

  


My eyes blur in a thin cloud of tears, and as I blink my vision clear I realise I must have fallen behind again, because Louis, my beloved King, is striding back down towards me.

  


He still looks a bit thwarted, but he's looking at me this time. _He's smiling at me for sure._

  


He walks close enough to touch, inspecting my face in the fleeting light of the distant fire, a lopsided smirk not leaving his lips. He has a knowing look for the group of soldiers, then, before he turns back to me.

-”A King who wishes to be a blacksmith” he whispers, a bit dreamy, “and a Cardinal who would rather be a soldier. Really, _a fine pair we make_.”

  


I bite my lips, dropping my stare on the ground between our feet, ashamed to wish for another life while my own has been blessed in more ways than I could say.

But my King doesn't seem to be vexed by my thoughts at all, since his hand gently brushes my sleeve after a while, and gives it a short, discrete tug. I look up to see him nod at the conquered City above our heads, three towers rising high in the night sky, glowing lights and dimmed echoes swaying between the thick ramparts.

-”But haven't we accomplished a lot, Armand,” he adds, his tone maddeningly lower, “considering how _misplaced_ we both are?”

  


Set aflame by the radiant pride in his voice, I fight the urge to beg for a kiss, and I think he shares my need deeply enough to be alarmed, because he quickly lets go of me. Spinning around, he climbs towards the gate again, his trouble covered by affected insouciance.

-” We could be fifteen Spaniards coming back for seconds and you still wouldn't spot a thing!” He throws at the soldiers, and they all start and stare as one, including Treville, who clicks his heels in stunned unease.

-”Your Majesty!” The Captain mutters, gesturing towards the soldiers, struggling to justify their carelessness. “Our apologies, we-”

But Louis just raises a peaceful hand.

  


-”At ease, gentlemen.” He soothes, a bit of disappointment, perhaps, in his gruff voice.

  


His attempts at joking are often mistaken for threats by the Officers, it's true, but my King has to forgive them. He has only started to jest a few years ago after all, as he grew accustomed, I hope, to being a little happier sometimes.

He joins the circle of men, warming his hands to the lively fire with unpretentious moves, but for him also, there is a distance isolating him from his soldiers, so wide it cannot be ignored. Their nonchalant comradeship has disappeared, and they all stare in abashed respect, the infantrymen still bowing low while the five Musketeers instinctively form a protective circle around him.

Louis doesn’t forbid those marks of deference, but as Treville murmurs something about how unsafe it is for the King to wander outside alone his concern too is shrugged away with an imperious hiss.

He always looked a bit burdened, I know, by the constant attention his rank forces upon him. I might understand his yearning for a simpler life, but God, I am sure, couldn’t have picked a better soul to bear the crown of this nation.

He is quickly relieved, though, of those gazes fixed upon him as I step out of the dark behind his back.

Indeed, all faces turn towards me and silence falls around the fire, stretching over a few heartbeats.

  


  


After that, the soldiers bow again, more stiffly no doubt, and though I cannot sense the hatred or contempt I inspire to some, there is much less warmth in their voices as they greet me.

-”Generalissime.” De Ville breathes.

-”Your Eminence.” Treville grunts.

  


I have a gentle nod for each of them.

  
I wish I could discuss siege fort design with the young engineer. I have gathered a few books on the subject he would find interesting.  
I wish I could ask the lieutenant to tell the tale of his battle again. The way he crashed against the Spanish cavalry on foot with a sword in each hand.  
I wish I could share their laughter. I wish I could share their bread.

But I am what I am, feared if not despised, and they would only be wary, I fear, of my attempt to sympathise. So all I utter is a stern, formal praise for their bravery and skill, received with surprised, yet just as stern gratitude.

Louis, who has grown amazingly sensitive to my feelings during those last years, seems to sense my regret, and claps his hands in decently faked realisation.

-”Cardinal, as you were ever so kind to remind me,” he declares, “we are late for our Council. Shall we? ”

With that, he salutes the men around the fire, has a short grin for Treville, and stomps towards the City House. I bid my own farewell and hurry at his side, leaving behind a perfect array of dazed faces.

  


  


  


Again, we stroll through the streets of Corbie without a look or a glance at each other, both of us lost in our own thoughts I suppose. The distant sounds of celebrations are already fading as the night marches on, tiny spots of light dying one by one upon the face of the city. I follow him laboriously as he rushes inside the City House and jumps up the narrow stairs to the North tower, dismissing countless servants along the way.

  


Only when we’re in the small study once more he stops his running, his breath a bit short, and unclasps his coat to let it hang in front of the fireplace. He turns to me, then, watching me closely as I lock the door and shrug my own cape off my shoulders, folding it next to his.

I would think it more agreeable for him to get over those administrative tasks as quickly as possible, so I go straight for the documents on the table, but before I even open my mouth to talk, he snaps his fingers at me, lifting a firm hand in the air.

  


-“Wait.” He orders.

  


I notice, then, that his gaze upon the papers is filled with bitterness, his mouth tight with sorrow and refusal. Perhaps my King would require a little more push, after all, to let go of his forlorn dreams of a quieter existence to gird his head with the crown of thorns that is the heritage of his bloodline.

It is my turn, I guess, to draw his attention to the brighter side of his burden.

  


I inhale sharply, tapping my fingertips against the first of the nobles' files for a while before I offer, my gaze sweeping over my carefully prepared chores.

-”History and fate, it is true, might have overcome the aspirations of our souls.”

  


He lets out a sad chuckle, rubbing his eyes with his both hands, spreading upon his brow a bit of coal he missed out earlier. I smile tenderly at those dark blurry lines around his tired stare, making him look a bit like those performers of antique tragedies.

He is beautiful, my Sun, my destiny, he has always been, both steady and wild as his forest of Versailles can be. I, on the other hand, with my fifty years of struggle harshly carved upon my skin, cannot even hope for such grace anymore, but I can still use the elegance he likes in me. I can still display, as I shift closer to him, the enticing warmth that always troubles his mind. I can still show, as I tilt my head aside and drop my eyes upon his hands, flashes of the pale neck he has always hungered for.

  


I can still play, as I whisper against his cheek, the tones of my voice that send shivers down his spine.

  


-”But would we have met,Louis, my love, in those nameless lives we crave?”

  


His breath hitches brutally, and he leans into my touch with fierce want, his eyes blurred and darkened at the sound of his name. His hands come to grab my robes around my waist, and he pulls me to him without compromise.

-”Most likely not.” He breathes, the trembling in his voice too deep to go unnoticed.

  


-”There must be, I suppose then,” I almost purr into his ear, “a bit of hope for the misplaced.”

  


He moans, _loud_ , grabs my hair and kisses me raw, violent and possessive as he has been all his life, using his dreadful force to pull my whole body a bit lower. When I yield, he moans louder, and I have to defend my orderly documents with all I have or he'd lay me down on this very table to take me whole.

Upon a last promising kiss I gently divert his eagerness towards our duties, keeping my eyes low as a solemn oath of later _gratitude_. He squeezes his eyes shut, letting out a vibrant line of curses, but when he opens them again, he looks happy with being King once more, and this is all God has put me on Earth for.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


 


	4. What's left of the dreamers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fandom : BBC Musketeers modern AU  
> Pairing : Richelieu/Treville  
> Date : May, 2015  
> Words : 5K  
> Rating : T

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Teeet-tili-teeeet._

  


Shit, I should change that ringtone. That damn thing blasts seven times an hour and it's driving me insane.

I pull out the phone and pick up.

  


-”Treville.” I grunt.

  
< Captain,> Portau's lively voice calls, <the President has passed the main gates.>

  


Ah. So the mess is about to start.

  


-”Set the mobile escort in motion.”

<Done!>

  


I shove the phone away, unlocking the talkie-walkie out of my belt.

  


-”Treville to inside team.”

 

Only dull static replies.  
  
-”Treville to inside team!” I almost shout, _damn, this junk is ancient.  
_

 

<Inside team, Sillègue.> The distant, cracking ghost of my lieutenant emerges.

  
-”The President is in. Status?”

  
<All ready.>

  
-”Good. Clear corridor one, from the domain gates to the reception hall, let no one touch the man, and check every damn press card you see.”

 

<Copy that.>

  


A loud, irritating feedback finds time to piss into my ears before I put the talkie-walkie away.

I sigh, sweeping a forlorn gaze around the small container office I've been granted me as commander of the presidential security.   
Maps of the whole Chaumont sur Loire domain, castle and gardens included, are stacked all over the narrow desk, with a lonely laptop sitting on top of it all like a fucking rooster of a pile of manure. Sighing, I push it all away to retrieve the keys of the anti-riot truck where the weapons are stocked.  I also take the skeleton key of the Castle's ground floor where my men’s quarters have been placed, and the president's schedule sheet of the day.   
I slip everything into my jacket and empty my goblet of coffee in a gulp.

  


_Shit. It's cold._

  


I get out of the container with a grimace.

  


The overwhelming smell of flowers comes back rushing at my face, making me stop dead in my run, blinded by the radiant sun of May.

  


Chaumont sur Loire is already quite a wonder without the festival. That huge Renaissance castle looks like it has been pulled out of a fairytale, and the gardens around it are as big as Paris' 18 th  district. Orchards, ponds, canals and sumptuous fountains everywhere, a bit like that book I had, when I was a kid, about the history of the Louvre.

  


The past sounds a little more alive here along the Loire than it can ever be in Paris.

There is no racket, no dizzying lights, no endless flood of tourists. You actually have time to focus upon those ancient towers, those high windows, and hear what they have to say.

  


And if it wasn't enough, every year the International Flower and Garden festival makes the whole place step up to another level. Thousands of horticulturists gather here from every corner of Europe to present their latest varieties, hoping to win some contest for the best daisy, the best fruit tree or God knows what.

Billions of shapes, colours, fragrances duel here for three whole days, and from what I heard, this festival is essential to strengthen France in the first place on the luxury flower market.  
  
Officially by the way, that's the only reason for today’s Presidential visit.

But bullshit put aside, truth is our elected leader has cut five different kinds of social welfare funds in half those last months, and the whole country is _burning_ with violent marches of protest, so Hollande's cabinet thinks it _appropriate_ to let him be seen on TV surrounded with nice flowers and the Loire's sun for a while.

Not without, of course, five hundred local policemen, ten squads from the Paris division and three private security teams. The riots are so fierce even I have pulled out of my Police command quarters of Paris to synchronize all this shit, in the faint hope of preventing Hollande from getting anything thrown at his face, may it be rotten eggs, or a fucking grenade.

  


Though I've been authorized to bring my lieutenants to help me, this place is freaking gigantic, and it has been a tedious job to say the least.

  


  


  
  


I run around flowerbeds and decorated floats to the reception hall, some sort of insane conservatory built entirely from scratch just for the occasion. I give my orders to Quentin, then, the Nantes protection and security department chief, who's more than happy to let me take responsibility for this chaos, and take my position on the mezzanine above the presidential tribune.

  


It allows me to watch the main alley and pretty much everything of the hall, and I wanted that spot marked mine from the first minute of the festival. I pick up that talkie-walkie again, ordering my men into a discrete fence around the approaching procession of long black cars.

  


The President gets out of the first one, acclaimed by a carefully placed circle of officials, instantly blurred by a thunderstorm of camera flashes. Behind him goes his self-effacing wife, covered in too much makeup and not enough dignity. The First Minister gets out of the second car, Cabinet officers next, and focusing on the movements of the crowd becomes harder by the second, because I’ve spotted the fourth car, and I know who’s into that one.

  


I have this stupid instinct to check myself into the blind screen of a huge TV on my left, fixing the collar of my regulation white shirt. _I never fucking do that, why am I doing that?_

  


I cough, exasperated by my own nervousness, bark a few commands in the talkie-walkie again and go back to my surveillance. I do keep my eyes on the President, I _do_ , but those few glances at that last saloon car, I don't think can't help much.

In the corner of my eyes I still see him step out, nonchalant, graceful, swiping through his smartphone with the worried frown he never seems to drop.

  


_For fuck’s sake stop fidgeting._

  


I’ve seen that man a hundred times; I’ve talked with him for a hundred hours. I’ve remembered him enough for the echoes of his voice to follow me into my bed, and after three years of colliding with him times and times again, I’m still biting my lips like a schoolboy because I know he’ll be joining me up here.

There’s often a spot next to me with his name on it after all.

  


The career of a Command Police Officer is measured in Presidents. When I have been named Captain, it was Chirac, so that makes three. My Commissary, Renier, has known fucking Pompidou, and he strikes seven.

Those faces on electoral posters, they come and go every five years, but there’s a man who always stays. As this man walks upon the red carpet of the festival, though, no one notices him. Every camera, every microphone has been turned towards Hollande a while ago. But I know, as the blessed insider I am, that the soul of this very country is locked into that smooth black suit of his and nowhere else.

  


He clicks his phone shut and lifts his head up. He finds me within seconds. He knew where to look. He has a soft smile, a slight tilt of the head, and strides up the stairs to the mezzanine.

I grip the guardrail tight and keep overlooking the crowd, rapidly preparing a few clever, noncommittal words.

 

_Teeet-tili-teeeet._

  


Oh for fuck’s sake.

  


I pick up the phone, growl my name, receive status, bark orders, no I want no civilians around the tribune. Protesters haven’t been pushed beyond the limits of the festival at the price of my _balls_ to find them back popping out banners behind Hollande as he gives his official speech.

  


-”Keep anyone who isn’t in the President’s fucking contact list out of the hall until the end of his visit.” I spit. “And check the staff too, remember that Vegan Rights hippie dressed as a wine waiter last month. I want no more of that shit.”

  


With that, I bury the phone in my jacket and stare at him, uneasy.

  


-”Richelieu.” I try, extending my hand, too damn _flustered_ for my own good.

  


-”Captain Treville.” He gently greets, his voice quiet and steady as the Loire can be.

  


I wonder what his shouts sound like.  
_I wonder how his moans would feel._

  


His hand in mine is soft and warm, his thin long fingers curling into my palm with delicious elegance. I make our handshake last three seconds more than it should. That’s all I allow myself to take from him.

It’s enough, though, to make his thick eyelashes sink low for a moment, but he’s turned towards the tribune before I can watch his face too closely.

His man fucking knows how to hide.  


I clench and unclench my fists a few times, then pick up my talkie-walkie to listen to the livestream of my men’s signals, hoping I’m not fucking blushing at least.

  


_How have we come to this mess_ _, Armand de Richelieu, how exactly?_

  


Well, I’m pretty sure I’ve started it. I’ve known for twenty years that women aren’t quite my thing, and though I’ve been excellent at covering my miserable love life under workload and secrecy, I think pretty much everyone at the precinct has guessed it all by now.

I would have been content with gay pub one night stands and once-a-month Pornhub rides, I swear. My job is enough. _My job is everything._

Paris is fucking big, and though command duties are too far from the street brawl for my tastes, teaching recruits and managing the police forces of all twenty districts actually gets some shit done.

  


I would have been glad, I swear, but he came out of nowhere that day three years ago, storming into my office to scold me for my “very loose concept of a surveillance job” at the 2012 Climate meeting.

Not a single incident had happened during those fourteen days of nightmare, but he still dropped on my desk a thick file made of the fifty-eight potential breaches in my security system that _could have led_ to one.

  


I seriously considered having him kicked out of my quarters in the minute, but after one page of reading, like it or not I felt he was fucking right, and just politely asked him to sit down.

  


I started to notice, from that moment on, an awful lot of things about him.

  


First of all, the way he moved. He has this kind of elegance I’ve only seen in fucking period drama so far. This delicacy of movement would be ridiculous, I’m sure, on anyone else but this guy. But it goes well with the rest of him I guess. It goes with the neat goatee from another century, the longish grey hair, the sharp slim suits, and that insanely long coat of dark red cashmere, flowing around his legs like the cape of a forlorn magician.

  


There’s something rare in him, something long-lost, timeless and haughty.

He’s old nobility, I think, but that’s not all of it.

  


I learned he was some kind of special advisor at the Elysée, the head of a permanent council meant to monitor the queue of Presidents so they don’t lose sight of their country’s interests, and since I had been freshly catapulted into Head Security Management, we were bound to meet again at every major presidential public appearance in the following years.

 

We met a lot indeed, and as my _concept of a surveillance job_ did improve a lot, our conversations turned more amiable with time.

  


The list of things I liked in him quickly got longer. In our stolen discussions between duties, I discovered his brilliant wits, and the impressive resolve crammed into his thin, pale frame. I witnessed the way his voice grows feverish when he speaks about our country, with words so ancient they'd sound tired and worn out anywhere else than in his mouth. That man can actually say « the best interests of future France” without sounding like those far-right assholes I'd like to fill prisons with.

  


He talks about France like some priests talk about God, like lucky men speak of their wives, like something he trusts and believes in with his guts, with his life.

And compared to the height of his ideals, the gruesome baseness of reality seems to hurt him more than anything. From oligarchy to reality TV, from corruption to Black Fridays, our world seems to have betrayed everything he wants to stand for. There's anger in him, there's bottomless sorrow, and though he's obviously born for control, his eyes often look a bit lost, searching for landmarks long vanished in time.

  


I know this; I know it very well, because I feel just the same.

  


  


When I joined the force, fifteen years ago, I thought, like every single other rookie putting on his uniform for the first time, that I was going to change the world. I saw myself defending the poor, protecting the lonely, getting rid of the sharp-dressed filth that made Paris a thousand square kilometres wide cut-throat alley.

  


But justice is nothing more than something you pay for, and some motherfuckers just can't be touched. Orders become absurd, and those you end up protecting stink more than a mass grave. You keep trying, you will until you die, but you have to give up on your rookie illusions soon enough, or go down with the burnout as many others did.

It leaves you aflame; it leaves you dead-cold. It leaves you stuck with bottomless sorrow, and I know, _Armand_ , I know every scrap of your pain.

  


  


That's why I've started this mess we’re in I suppose.

That's why I felt close to you enough to have an urge to brush your cheek at some point, in front of the Parliament's staff coffee machine.

That's why I began to stare at your hands, glance at your neck and gauge your waist, going from mild curiosity to an unquenchable need to grab, to _taste_ it all.

 

You were quick to notice. You're the smartest man in government, and I'm not known for my subtlety.

You recoiled away at first, and I supposed you were just straight. I was ready to give up hope, quite used to my fucking bad luck already.

But there's this drop of your eyelids that just keeps coming back every time I touch your skin, and I sense your trouble almost as clear as mine, just like now.

  


_Just like now._

  


  


  


I glance at his thin fingertips tapping on the guardrail of the mezzanine as he distractedly pulls out his phone to swipe and type a little more, still dignified, but definitely _agitated_. For the tenth time since I've first met him, I think, I shift a tad bit closer, until the side of my arm brushes his, and search for that shiver again.

  


Here it comes.

I felt it, and I heard his breath hitch, I swear I did, despite the rising noise around.

  


  


Oh, I don't know what you are, Armand, but you're not _straight_ .  
One day, I promise I'll grab my balls and make a move.

  


_There's no coward in this uniform of mine, you know._

  


  


-”It's quite an impressive deployment you're managing here, Treville.” He mutters after a while, gesturing at the police cordon encircling the hall.

  


I shrug, _why am I clearing my throat?_

  


-”Well, I ... ” Shit, _why am I stammering now_? “ This is the ruler of France we're dealing with down there.”

  


With that, he lets out a short, bitter laugh, snarling in disdain at the President as he walks towards the tribune for his speech.

  


-”No one is ruling France anymore.” He spits, acid dripping in his voice. “The President of the Republic is the meat puppet for a system that has no name. Industrialists, finance wolves, lobbyists, marketing agencies, that's the filth power lies in by now. Times for great deeds are gone. Times for great men have died. All we can do now is damage control and compromises. Do you know what ruling France has become, Captain Treville? _Micromanagement_.”

  


He growls the last word with so much hatred my throat goes dry. I watch his knuckles on the guardrail grow white in sheer effort and when he exhales a loud sigh, nervously brushing his hair away from his face, I swear to God I can't find one clever thing to say.

  


Fortunately, he doesn't seem to expect anything of the sort. He just turns to me, offers a botched smile, his eyes warming up a little.  
  
-”I still am very grateful for your doing such a remarkable job.”

  


I shrug again, I should stop that. I give back a grin, and pull out the talkie-walkie to save myself from any stupid thing I'd say.

  


I order for the cordon to turn to close protection mode as the President stands in front of the press, both hands laid flat on his tribune. Twenty men form a tight line behind him, and all around the hall, the rest of them stand ready, keeping the crowd in a well-ordered pack.

-”Seal all ways in.” I command Sillègue. “No one gets in anymore until the end of the speech. Packed places are impossible to manage.”

<Yes, Captain.>

  


I shut the communication but keep the box in my hand, scanning the floor as I'm trained to do.

Next to me, Richelieu is obviously doing three things at the same time, writing emails on his phone, checking his own copy of the President's schedule, and listening intently to the speech.

As Hollande starts to talk, I see Richelieu mouthing his words in advance, and it happens every damn time. I'm sure I'm standing here next to the man who has been writing all presidential speeches himself, from Flower festival to Memorial Celebration, for this President, and I guess, for the five previous ones too.

  


While the speech unfolds, I see a Cabinet Officer humbly coming up to present Richelieu him with a list of press questions. The thin white man pulls out a pen, sweeps through the list, bars eight questions, hands back the list. He also enumerates a series of journalists he doesn't want at the interview time. The officer almost fucking _bows_ , and hurries back downstairs.

The press questions, after the official speech, keep coming in flawless ease, all inquiries obediently contained to the prestige of France's craftsmanship and tradition. Richelieu softly nods to himself, and I'm not even fucking surprised anymore.

  


  


 

Another dog in a suit climbs up to the mezzanine to hand over a guest list for some shit organized next week. The man in red cashmere bars through it with the same speed as the previous one, all while picking up his phone and talking in a low, yet precise voice about how exactly the upcoming government road safety campaign should be called.

  


Below our feet a delegation of horticulturists is quietly lined up between two ranks of my men to offer their most precious varieties to the President. A carnival of luxurious bouquets is presented to him on a carefully measured stanza, but even from where I stand, I can see Hollande gives absolutely no shit. He holds them up for a while, blurts out some bland praise, and then hands them over to his Head of Cabinet who almost throws them on the floor.

  


I'm not a great fan of flowers, never had time to give them a second thought, but shit, those things are magnificent, he could at least say something nice to the people who grew them.

Next to me Richelieu seems to be just as outraged, glaring at the President in growing irritation.

  


He picks up his phone again, his dark fiery eyes fixed upon Hollande, and forms a number on speed dial.

Next to the tribune, I see the Head of Cabinet fumbling through his pockets. The man retrieves his phone and pales in a heartbeat.

  


_Is it...?_

I glance at Richelieu, then back at the Head of Cabinet. I'm not mistaken. The officer picks up and I hear his timid voice right next to me through Richelieu's own phone.

  


-”Advisor?”

  


-”Tell _Monsieur le Président_ to give at least one bouquet to his bloody wife, for God's sake,” The man in red hisses, “there are five national TV channels cameras fixed upon her and she's standing right next to him completely ignored!”

  


The man downstairs flinches in panic, claps his phone shut an discretely takes the first woman's arm to push her forward until Hollande remembers she's there, and hands her a bouquet of yellow irises.

The press applauses, the crowd cheers, and Richelieu lets out a sigh of anguished fatigue. He closes his eyes, and lifts a slightly trembling hand to rub his forehead for a while.

He has migraines. I know what they look like, my father had some. _The pain is murder._

And yet, I never heard him even whimper.

  


  


Not that I don't wish to.

_Oh, shut up._

  


  


  


  


The ceremonial ends peacefully enough, and the President steps down the platform to mingle with the crowd while a buffet is quickly served. I order five of my best trained men to follow him around and focus the rest upon filtering the gateways.

I'm still barking directives when I see Richelieu walking away, and I have an automatic gesture to stop him. I abort it before my hand touches his shoulder, but the glorious fucker still notices, and drops his gaze low just as if I had grabbed him for real.

  


-”I'm afraid our duties are separating us again, Captain,” he quietly states as I hang up the walkie-talkie, “I wish you a good, if undoubtedly busy evening.”

  


I shake his hand in stunned silence, and I feel my mouth slightly gaping, _oh, well done Jean, very attractive._

He gracefully gets down the stairs, picking up his phone to scroll through emails again I suppose, and I feel like a fucking failure. This mess can't last any longer; I swear to God, I have to make a move.

  


  


_There's no coward in this uniform of mine._

  


  


I set myself on managing the security of the reception and the President's guided tour of the domain for three excruciating hours until the saloon cars come back in a disciplined row to swallow their prestigious guests and drive them away.

I supervise the securing of the corridor back to the domain gates, then order all forces outside the fences to push back the five hundred protestors who had the courage to wait until the President gets out. The men know their jobs and the militants are tired, so the dull cortege of black cars ends up joining the highway North to Paris without even a tomato on their sparkling bodywork.

Porteau tells me not even a window has been lowered for a glance at them all, and behind his voice I hear the sound of protestors yelling in frustration.

I congratulate my lieutenants for a job well done and they let out a few thankful jokes, but in truth, I know we're all sorry for those people outside the gates, holding up their signs and banners for no one by now, ignored, like eighty percent of France, by the handful of men in power.

  


‘ _Times for great deeds have gone.' He said. 'Times for great men have died.'_

  


  


I rub my face into my hands, exhaling an unsteady sigh. Fuck, that has been a long day.

Below, the press and officials are leaving in small packs, and the catering staff is already rushing in, cleaning the food trays, pushing the high tables aside, dutifully bringing the festival's Grand Opening to a close. I finally leave my observation spot then, tumbling down the stairs into the hall, and start shamelessly sniffing around the buffet for some leftover coffee like a fucking hobo.

The waiters can look at me sideways, screw them, I'm too exhausted to care.

  


But it seems bad luck is still stuck on my shoes, because if I have found a clean cup alright, there's no sign of hot coffee. Swearing loud, I'm about to drop the cup on a lonely table when a delicate aluminium pot appears above it and starts pouring perfect black liquid.

_I know those hands._

I look up and almost let go of my prize.

  


Richelieu smiles at me, brushing his hair away from his refined face again and laying the coffee pot aside.

  


-”A well-deserved reward.” He simply says.

  


-”How..?” I stutter, pointing at the exit behind my back. “Why aren't you...?”

  


_Oh, brilliant speech again._

His eyes, just as tired as mine it seems, follow my gesture and gaze through the door for a while. His phone rings, and he pulls it out of his coat, but this time he swipes it silent without a look. I don't think I've ever seen him do that.

  


-”The President and I had a slight _disagreement_ concerning the protesters outside,” he explains, “as I advised him for the fifth time today to stop and at least listen to their demands while he stubbornly refused. The vital urgency of paying attention to the French people's warnings will be repeated to him with further insistence tomorrow in State Council, but I'm afraid as always, that no one ever learns from the past, and governments nowadays keep succumbing to lower kinds of pressures.”

  


It takes me a few seconds to untangle his fucking sentence and grasp what he's talking about again, because this man speaks like most people can't write.

But I suppose he means Hollande will continue to serve the interests of what Richelieu calls the nameless system, made of world economics and industry lobbying, despite the fact that it's obviously driving us straight to civil war at full speed. Again, instead of words I gave him a compassionate shrug and take a sip of his blessedly warm coffee, watching his pale brow knitted by headache.

How forlorn he looks, alone in his long red cloak, his quick wits and gentle wisdom wasted at the service of a mindless elected clown.

How desperate he sounds, with a mind wide enough to change a continent, and yet reduced by a collapsing world to lesser, inconsequential tasks.

_To micromanagement._

  


  


How lost, how out of place we both seem, standing on this empty platform, surrounded by garbage and discarded flowers as the old disillusioned bastards we must be.

The advisor and the cop _, what's left of the dreamers._

  


  


He shudders violently, and he starts biting at his thumb. That's not the first time he does that. There are _scars_ on his hands a good inspector couldn't miss. I guess he's much more damaged that he shows. It shouldn't upset me so much, but it does, of course if fucking does, and when I notice his eyes are tearing up, that's it, I’m done.

It's now or never.

  


_There's no coward in this uniform of mine._

  


  


  


I quickly search around on the floor, skimming through the superb flower arrangements left for dead at our feet until I spot a small ensemble of bright red roses. Each one of the seven lovely buds is of a different shade, in variations of subtle purple or mauve. The smallest one, on top, is something I've seen before, and if it isn't a sign, I don't know what is.

  


I leave my cup on a table, crouch down to seize the small rose, yank it out of the bouquet and, getting back up, plant it firmly into the lapel of his coat.

The colour matches perfectly.

  


-”I think this one bears your name.” I reply to his astonished stare. “An illustrious ancestor I guess.”

  


-”Y- you...” It's his turn to stammer, his cheeks turning into an enticing shade of pink. “... I didn't know you were familiar with roses, Captain.”

  


-”Jean.” I correct, because he doesn't need to know I googled everything about his name a dozen times in those last three years.

  


-”Jean.” He repeats, with a hint of _silk_ in his voice that makes my blood rush south.

  


_Damn, he’s fucking hot._

  


I cough, clench my fists, unclench them, fetch my coffee, and as his stare finds mine, I instinctively scan the surroundings to escape the intensity of it. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to handle that. There is mostly cleaning staff and tech guys lingering in the hall, but still far too much people. I want us out of here _now_.

I can't drive him to the squalid hotel I've been assigned to, though. He's the Republic's special advisor for fuck’s sake, not a cheap service station whore.

  


And yet, if I don't find a safe spot where I can kiss this man until he passes out, I swear to God I'm going to set this whole place on fire.

Frustrated, I bury my free hand into my pocket, my feet almost stomping. I’m battling the fatality of my bad luck for a while, until I feel a clicking set of keys against my fingers there in my jacket.

With that faint jingling sound, a wide grin slowly splits my face.

  


The Castle. The fucking _Chaumont Castle_.

  


-“Do you like Renaissance paintings, Monsieur de Richelieu?” I ask him.

  


His eyes grow wide in disbelief, lighting up with such raw excitement he doesn't need to answer. And he actually doesn't, as he just lowers his head a little and whispers :

  


-”Armand.”

  


-” _Armand_.” I repeat, and something in the way his breath wheezes sounds like fucking victory to me.

  


I gulp down my coffee and put the cup next to his miraculous pot, giving his arm a brief tug so he understands he has to follow me. I dart outside then, anxious and delighted like a man rolling his last ball at a bowling game.

  


I know he falls into step behind me because I hear the soft flapping of his coat around his legs as we stride through the flower bushes. Daylight is already declining, and if the colours seem a bit dulled by the rising dusk, the smells are getting fucking wild. I look over my shoulder from time to time to watch him enjoy his own tour of the Festival with restrained joy. His clever eyes devour the intricate miniature gardens, the multilevelled flowerbeds, the sculptures, the rare plants, not as an expert of course, but as someone who know what is beauty and what isn't.

  


We cross the ancient ditches to the castle, and walk through the courtyard without even a glance from my men or the staff. They must suppose we're set to work.

  


Well they can suppose whatever the fuck they want.

  


I lead Richelieu away from the castle's main gates to a more discrete door on the stairs tower, that I unlock with the skeleton key. I push the door open and beckon him inside, _shit, did I just wink at him?_

  


My hit-on skills are definitely rusty.

  


He doesn't seem to mind, nodding in gratitude as he follows me upstairs, passing a curious stare everywhere, and a respectful touch upon a few ancient stones. There's that place I've noticed in my first parameter check. They barely showed it to me because it was supposed to be locked all Festival's long. The furniture there is all genuine 17th century or something, and it's too precious to risk damage as the number of visitors rises tenfold for three days.

  


Now, where is it? First floor, one door to the left, cross two empty rooms, and here we are.  
I open one last narrow door, and have a tilt of my head towards the inside. He steps in with a low gasp of sheer awe, and I could be fucking punching the air.

As he looks around, I wish I could repeat what the castle curator told me two days ago about names and dates and origins and materials, but I forgot everything that wan't relevant for the security setup. So I lock the door in silence instead, biting my lips, _come on, stupid fucker, say something._

  


-”It's... cosy, right?”

  


_Oh bloody hell._

  


-”It's magnificent.” He breathes, passing tentative fingertips upon the monumental painted stone hearth.

  


I find everything a bit too heavy, a bit too dark. That short bed nestled in velvet curtains that must have taken a lifetime to decorate, those black wood tables and chairs I wouldn't dare to lay a finger on, those massive trunks covered in gems and forged iron, nothing much here fits my simple tastes. If the past whispers everywhere else in Chaumont, it yells in here, as if the ghosts of days long gone hadn't left this place yet.

  


It's impressive of course, it's beautiful I guess, but that's not what I like the most in it. That's not why I brought him here.

I brought him here because despite his suit and shoes that are definitely the latest models from Yves Saint Laurent or some uptown shit like that, everything else in him looks like it was meant for this place, so clear, so obvious it's breathtaking.

  


That's where this alien comes from. That's the exact spot in time where this old worn-out soul was born, to the sound of beating hooves and swishing swords.

  


A time for great deeds. _A time for great men._

  


  


He sighs in a state of peace I still hadn't seen in him, his face at least ten years younger, his gestures unhurried and relaxed. He seems to grow in here, he seems to bloom like these flowers will surely do tomorrow morning, and if I needed one more sign that I was made to protect that man, well it's burning in my chest right now.

  


I walk to him, steady, confident. No more bad luck. No more misery.  
I've found him, _I've finally found him._

  


He lets me approach with barely tamed anxiety, his hand still hovering above a gigantic throne of back carved wood. It doesn't stop me. He saw what was coming, and he welcomes it, I know, he's just a man with a tendency to over-think, that's all.

Well, I'm not. I don't say a word, I just press myself against him, feeling one more shiver of his crawl up his spine, and lay my both hands on his hammering heart. I push him backwards, gently, until his back hits a superb tapestry against the wall. I pin him there, upon some battle scene of an antique war, and if he squirms a little, if because of the masterpiece behind him, not because my lips are inches from his own.

  


  


-”Jean, we can't do that here.” He mutters, his hands suspended above my shoulders.

  


I have a knowing look from the four-hundred years old things around us, and shrug carelessly again; leaning slowly towards him.

  


-”They can handle it.” I whisper against his cheek. “They can handle _us_.”

  


My hands slide down to his waist, damn, I've been wanting to grab that for years. It's narrow, it's supple, it's so wonderfully pliant and it's just perfect. I watch his face, searching for consent, and I see it quite clear, written in his short breath, his glassy eyes, oh I don't know what you are, Armand, but you're not _straight_.

  


It was about time I made my move.  
_There has never been a coward in any uniform of mine._

  


  


I tilt my head and kiss him rough, God, he feels amazing, a bit nervous, mostly docile. I force his lips open, and squeeze him between the ancient war and my feverish skin. I wanted to hear him whimper, I think.

  


Now it's done.

  


My mouth leaves his to lick down his neck.  
I wondered what his moans sounded like.

  


_Now I know._

  


  


His hands at last grip my shoulders, praising the muscles there for a while as I open his collar and devour his neck, before they humbly push me apart.

-”There must be someone who could switch this on anytime.” He pants, gently nodding up at a security camera above us.

  


-”Yes,” I grunt, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt, “ _me_.”

  


It doesn't ease the frown on his face, so I look into his eyes and cup his hollow cheeks. I kiss him again, deep, hungry, making him feel how undoubting I am. I press my whole body against him, making him sense how steady, how _hard_ I am, and he finally cries out into my mouth.

  


With that, though I smile in sheer triumph, I lower myself a little, as if to kneel, and make him look down at me.

  


-”Don't worry, Armand.” I promise him, as a solemn oath of allegiance. “I am here. Never, ever worry anymore.”

  


And then, gently, I tug on his red coat until it falls at our feet, taking with him our lifetimes of solitude, and the rare flower that bears his very name.

  


  


 


End file.
